


The Probability of Arresting a Dragon

by catgoboom



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police & Yakuza, Brotherly Bonding, Eventual Smut, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-16 16:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8109259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catgoboom/pseuds/catgoboom
Summary: (working title) Unbeta'd.An alternative universe where Hanzo and Genji remain in the family business. Hanzo is now head of the Shimada Empire, and Genji is now a surprisingly reliable first-lieutenant whose endearing attitude keeps Hanzo grounded in this grizzly industry.Overwatch is disbanded, and the world continues to rebuild beyond the Omnic Crisis. The heroes have settled into ordinary lives. Hanzo exists in a world where all words and motives are double-edged, so what is he to think of the straight-forward, scruffy American police officer?The Cop/Yakuza AU no one asked for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: death, amputation. 90% Hanzo & Genji centric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends, thank you for taking your time to click on this fic! 
> 
> Just a fun project after some encouragement from the wonderful users on Tumblr. Please note that I am inexperienced in writing, so I apologise for any spelling mistakes, grammatical errors and weird prose. Chapter format is episodic because I am bad at writing long chapters.

******1.1 - Brothers**

It starts with reasoning, then pleading, and then force. 

When the Clan Elders implored Hanzo to discipline Genji’s wild spirit, he never predicted it would lead to raising a blade to his brother in the courtyard of their own home. 

Strikes exchange, flesh cuts deep. Hanzo staggers, bewildered under the pain of the first blow Genji lands on his body. He expects Genji to jeer, as he does during their usual spars, but his brother only stares at him resolutely, hurt.  

_ Kill him _ , the Elders had urged,  _ He only dishonours us _ .

Hanzo feels the cold justification settle to the bottom of his stomach. Maybe he can convince Genji to reform one more time, he has to try. 

Steel connects again and again. Every advantage is taken as every mistake is a sharp punishment. They weave and slash as they have been taught, one successful cut is returned with another. Their duel continues on like textbook.

A stalemate. 

Genji is not weak, Hanzo realises, his brother is his equal match. He is not the fickle, lazy fool the family has come to assume. His brother is a true Shimada in natural talent, always able to afford dismissing their numerous lessons, yet keep up with the teachings. Hanzo grits his envy away.

It shocks both of them when Genji disarms Hanzo first. Hanzo swiftly returns the favour in the moment of hesitation with a hard kick, and the sword rings dull as it skids across the floor. They both watch its path and both scramble to grab it. 

Weapons exhausted, now they fight with their fists. Genji has always been better in this form of martial art, Hanzo spitefully acknowledges the fact as he can manage only to block and deflect the powerfully accurate jabs thrown in his face. 

Genji attacks, Hanzo defends, and the sword is soon forgotten.

Movements begin to become sluggish and desperate as the hand-to-hand combat soon dissolves into clumsy wrestling. Exhaustion creeps up their aching muscles, their breaths come deep and harsh. At this point, Genji lacks what Hanzo excels: stamina. 

Finally, an advantage!

Hanzo grapples his brother face down to the stained concrete, locking his sword arm behind his back and presses his armoured knee across the back of his neck, pinning him.  

“Yield!” Hanzo demands. Genji shudders under him, rasping venomously determined words against the floor as his breath speckles blood against the ground. Hanzo twists his brother’s arm, ignores the pained moan and demands submission again. 

Still, Genji does not yield.     

_ It would be easier to hate him _ , Hanzo wishes. He tries, yells, to tell his brother to stay and walk their family’s path proper, but Genji swears and struggles and fights. Why does his brother give him so little choice?

_ At any cost, _ the Elders had advised,  _ Eliminate him. _

Hanzo forces his weight and the sound of a fleshy crack buckles under his hands.

Many things happen at once: Genji screams, the air thunders, and Hanzo is violently knocked to the far wall with a violent burst of neon green light. He feels white hot lightning flood upwards through his body. It burns him, like an agony deep in his bones. 

_ Genji already has his dragon _ , Hanzo wonders numbly from where he lands, watching the bright scaly ribbons coil over its master. The jaws of the beast bare at him. If it attacks, Hanzo is sure he no longer has the strength to move.

“Brother,” Genji says weakly. Hanzo hates how it sounds like an apology. 

The gates crash open, their father stands stiffly at the entrance with horror in his eyes. Hanzo can only imagine what this must look like.

It was sick, all sick. 

“Stop this,” their father says, voice so soft it strikes Hanzo deep in the middle of his chest, shaking him more than fury would. He shamefully turns away from his brother's crumpled body.

How dare he do this to his father’s favourite son.

 

**1.2 - Reconciliation**

Hanzo does not ever see those same Elders again. He knows they are dead.

He tries to swallow the bile of guilt as their father confesses his regret for giving Hanzo too much responsibility and Genji too little discipline. The apology makes Hanzo uncomfortable. Genji seems to feel the same way.

Genji is sent away to Nepal to complete what their father calls spiritual training. Hanzo vaguely listens while his brother is convinced he will become stronger under the teachings of a powerful monk. Despite his brother's boasting of receiving the opportunity, Hanzo knows the boy is scared.

It takes a year of intense meditation for Hanzo to unlearn the influence the former Clan Elders held over him. 

“What a fine work of manipulation,” his father begrudgingly admits. Hanzo agrees, and the excuse eases his guilt a fraction.

Another season passes before he speaks with Genji again, encountering him in the chilly west gardens where the synthetic trees still bloom pink over the thinly frozen lake.

The image of his little brother is both a relief and an ache. He can see the scarring along Genji’s cheekbone from where he had cut thinly and the beginning of another peeking out from beneath his collar. Hanzo knows they will always be constant reminders of his crime.

Brothers stand parallel in surreal silence for a long moment until Genji breathes deeply as if to speak first.

“I will never raise a blade again,” Hanzo says.

“You have always been dramatic,” Genji returns fondly. 

 

**1.3 - Inheritance**

_ My little brother is perfect now _ , Hanzo observes and there is no envy in his heart this time. Nepal had guided Genji to blossom into a strong, intelligent man, though the boyish charm remains. 

“What are you smiling at?” Genji asks. 

“I am grimacing at you,” Hanzo says. It is a good excuse since a tattoo needle pierces his bicep. He is reprimanded by the elderly artist when he flinches and Genji laughs.

The buzzing tip makes him anxious, but he can endure it better now his brother is here.

Once the tattoo is complete and healed, they race to the training hall like wild children. Hanzo snatches a long bow set off the wall as Genji props himself up on a high banister to watch.

Already feeling the power thrum through the lines of ink, a rabbit-fast heartbeat, Hanzo nocks an arrow and aims at the lone target across the length of the room. He almost forgets to breathe through his anticipation, calms, then fires.

Almost reeling back from the shock of energy, he has to shut his eyes to the alarmingly brilliant light, only catching sight of the tip of a bright blue tail as it slips through the wall. The target is obliterated. 

Genji’s rambunctious cheers, when he witnesses Hanzo release his first dragon, swells his chest with pride. It takes some moments for the adrenaline to settle before he properly hears Genji’s words.

“You got two fucking dragons!” 

Hanzo feels giddy. No one has possessed more than one in generations. He cannot wait to tell his father tonight so he eagerly waits for him in his office.

The joy, however, is short lived when a maid seeks them out in hysterics before dinner. Genji catches her before she collapses. 

“The master is dead!” she shrieks, tears running blotchy black lines down her cheeks. Genji’s breath hitches as he lowers the maid, falls against the wall, moaning in grief. Hanzo feels as though he is the one who has died. 

The maid sobs as violently as his heart does.

It is strangely appropriate for it to rain on the day of the funeral. The Shimada Estate is lined with its thousands of men and women, respectfully clothed in traditional black and white; a mourning nation.

Brothers stand numbly side by side as their father’s will is read aloud. As expected, Hanzo is the heir to inherit it all, and Genji is given the choice of freedom. Bittersweet are the last words desiring both of his sons to live a successful life. Hanzo wishes that intimate part was read only for his and his brother’s ears.

 

**1.4 - New Generation**

Surprisingly, Genji stays. Hanzo knows his reason is partially for taking revenge on their father’s killer. It is reason enough and, for that, Hanzo is grateful. 

Unsurprisingly, other clans quickly seize the opportunity to try command the world’s most powerful. The little Shimada prince is like a lamb compared to these well-seasoned demons. The new leadership throws the Shimada-gumi into an unsteady era. Hanzo’s inexperience shows, the men talk, and he knows his authority is slipping.

_ Too indecisive _ , the current Clan Elders scolded when an important deal was lost,  _ Speak more, speak less. You showed your intentions too obviously, not obviously enough. You are the leader, know your place. _

Hanzo wants to shut them up. 

Months go by with moderate gains and losses. The Shimada-gumi stays afloat with nothing spectacular to its name. Hanzo knows he is acting too careful and it is causing unrest in the estate, he knows they are dissatisfied.

When the fortune of a critical import passes to his hands, he takes the deal. He travels across the main island with Genji and a fair party of men. The business associate is of Chinese origin, Hanzo hopes his Mandarin is good enough.

Negotiations go as planned until one of the associate’s men pulls out a pistol, gunning down four then his boss. Hanzo quickly rises from his seat, mind reeling with anger and panic. Across from him, the mortally injured boss stares and gurgles blood from his throat. 

“Who sent you?” the dying man asks.

“Talon.” The gunman fires the pistol at a spot under the table.

An explosive detonates. The blast resonates and shakes his insides as he is launched back. Distantly, he hears Genji through the ringing in his ears before he blacks.

_ Talon? _

Hanzo wakes to the sound of steady beeps and the push and pull of air. Even when his body is keen on disobeying him, he manages to open his eyes and sees white. For a brief moment, he wonders if he is dead, but a brief glance around the room clearly screams hospital.

Body heavy, so anesthetized he pulls the stitches in his stomach as he struggles to sit up. An effort made difficult when he is unable to feel his legs to help push his weight. He throws back the sheets to assess how numb they are.

Hanzo looks down and at the ends of his knees are two bloodied bandaged stumps.

Heart stops, breath seizes, ice fills his veins, nerves flaring with panic, Hanzo catches himself before he loses control. Fingers twists in the sheets trying to grab onto something  _ solid _ . Insanity seems to grip at the edges of his mind, unable to breathe, he wants to scream.

“Hey.”

Hanzo startles, looking up.

“It will be all right, brother.” Genji guards the end of the bed. He gives Hanzo a brief, assuring glance. Hanzo swallows back the acid in his throat, anchoring onto Genji’s voice.  _ It will be all right. It will be all right. It will be all right. _

He is embarrassed by the first whimper that escapes his mouth. Genji has the decency to look away as he weeps into his hands.

 

**1.5 - First Meeting**

_ Better to lose your legs than your life _ , his father would have said. Hanzo will never make that mistake again.

In the months Hanzo heals, so does the Shimada-gumi. He learns and trains to be better, the best. Nothing pushes him more than the obsession to prove himself. Their reputation is earned again. His men now looks to him with respect and admiration, and Hanzo rewards them for their loyalty.

The mocking title of the little Shimada prince no longer applies, his age now over the cusp of thirty.  _ An emperor for the Shimada Empire is only appropriate _ , Genji had joked. 

Genji, the light who has stayed by his side through this dark walk of life, Hanzo treasures him completely.

Which is why Hanzo can softly admit to enjoying Genji’s company when they attend conferences in the United States of America. Invited by what he researches to be a well-established family, he learns the many new uprising Mafia gangs are eager to taste the power of the Shimada-gumi. How is Hanzo to deny them when it speaks so well for their influence?

They submit to his presence like hungry dogs. 

Barely an hour after their first evening of business, Genji somehow manages to obtain a  _ “sexy American sports car, brother!” _ Hanzo reluctantly agrees to go for a midnight joyride much to Genji’s obnoxious delight. 

Barely an hour later, Genji, being an irresponsible speed demon, gets them pulled over by highway patrol. 

“ _ Do not _ ,” Hanzo hisses, snatching Genji’s hand off the gear stick. They do not know these roads, and they have little power over foreign law. Genji will not throw another problem onto his lap with a foolish pursuit on American soil. 

Hanzo tells Genji to keep calm over his brother’s “ _ Aw, fuck _ .” 

Analyzing the situation, Hanzo wonders how well American police would take to bribery. Money was not an issue, he considers, and it would come out of Genji’s pocket. To his side, Genji is rehearsing the many friendly ways he can say “Hello, Officer!” in his best English. 

They stare at the rear-view mirror lit by the patrol car’s bright headlights, watching the officer’s silhouette approach them. He has a confident long-legged, lazy swagger. Hanzo’s ears prick to faint sound of delicate jingling on every step.  _ Keys? Cuffs? _

Hanzo mutters about the arrogance of American police.

Genji quickly lowers his window when the officer taps on it with a gloved knuckle, plastering on an amiable smile and chirps, “Hello, Officer!” 

Before, Genji can make an impression with his over-friendliness, Hanzo leans across to take over talking for his brother. Even now, he is formulating the possible questions and reasons in his mind. He is good at negotiating, at excuses.They are technically tourists in this country. Law-ignorant tourists is the easiest explanation. Yes, he should go with that.

Officer McCree tips his hat with a complex prosthetic arm ( _ how gaudy _ , Hanzo faintly thinks) and cocks his holstered hip to one side. He is tall, scruffy, toned muscles beginning to give away to softer curves under the dark uniform, curled lips breathing a voice deep and smooth as malt whiskey, “Howdy, gents, licence and registration please.”

Hanzo’s mouth is dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! I haven't written in 10 years;;
> 
> find me on tumblr for art [(http://catgoboom.tumblr.com)](http://catgoboom.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: drug mention. Slow burn is slow due to poor amounts of interaction 8-)

“I’m bored,” McCree mumbles into the radio, “‘M really bored.”

No answer, just static. He signals in again, “So bored.”  

_“McCree, please keep the line clear.”_  

He laughs. Who could blame him? This is the third night in a row that some asshole decided to station him on the side of this particular highway during the quietest hours of a work night. Though, he remembers that he accidentally shot a bag of cocaine the other week and forensics angrily had to sweep their evidence up. But that has nothing to do with the situation he is in now. Nah.

He cradles the styrofoam cup in both hands. The soup is good tonight at least.

A blur of neon green slips by as a bright sports car zips down the highway. Clearly worth issuing a ticket.  

_Finally._  

McCree chucks the cup of soup out the window, flips on the lights and siren, immediately chasing the vehicle with the pedal to the floor. Admittedly, he’s a bit disappointed when the car pulls to the side obediently.

Ah well, McCree is happy enough to actually be doing something tonight that he struts from his car to the one in front, his jingling spurs matching his merry mood. He taps on the window and it lowers to reveal an already smiling face of a man. _Kinda cute_ , McCree notes.  

“Hello, Officer!” the driver chirps. At least this fellow is a friendly one. So far. McCree obliges with a tip of his hat, shifting his weight to one foot. His smile brightens when he sees the passenger slightly peek at him from the shadows, though he can’t make out the face. Probably a cutie too.

“Howdy, gents, licence and registration please.” The driver fumbles with his wallet for his licence as the passenger still stares. _O-kay…_ he has come across weirder people.

The card McCree receives is definitely not issued by the country, let alone the state.

“Not from ‘round here, huh?” he says. The driver- Genji- still grins cheerily, affirming with a sheepish shrug.

“No, we are from Japan,” Genji says, gesturing to the man beside him. The passenger shifts uneasily at being addressed. “My brother and I are visiting America for the first time.”

“That so?” McCree muses, looking between the photo and the driver. They look like the same person, but the shocking green hair in the photo is distracting. “Well, allow me to welcome y’all to the States. Unfortunately, I caught you doin’ something you shouldn’t have.”

“That is unfortunate,” Genji says, “What is the charge?”

McCree cannot help but grin, this fellow is really genuine. “Caught you goin’ ninety miles in a seventy zone. That’s somethin’ I really can’t overlook.”

“Oh, I forgot you use miles here,” Genji says mildly. They stare at each other for a long moment, then McCree bursts out laughing with belly seizing laughter. The brothers just exchange looks as McCree steadies himself on the door when the laughter throws him into a coughing fit. The passenger looks mortified.

“All righ’, nice try,” McCree says once he catches his breath, wiping a tear from his eye, “Christ, that was creative. Anyway.” He scribbles on his ticket pad, still shaking off the last of his chuckles. “Still gonna give you a citation. Guess you can consider it your first souvenir.”

“Thank you,” Genji accepts the ticket without argument. The brother snatches it from him and mutters in low Japanese about something. Probably about the ticket. The court can deal with whatever complaints this guy has. _Nice voice anyhow_ , his mind unnecessarily adds.

“Don’t let me catch you speedin’ again, ‘kay?” McCree pats the roof of the car good-naturedly. They wish each other a good night and the green sports car drives off again, at a careful speed this time.

McCree watches on, amused. At least they listened.

The only thing that tops this encounter is wrestling a robber at a convenience store by the end of his shift.    

 

**2.2 - Invitation**  

_Not a bad night_ , McCree thinks. He bathes in the communal showers, lathering up his hair with ‘borrowed’ shampoo. Seems like he will be smelling zesty fresh this time!

The sun is already creeping through the light vents by the time he enters the locker room. He sleepily greets the other men who are coming in to start their day. They jovially tell McCree that he looks like shit and should go to sleep.

“Fuck off, I am,” he says to each of them, grinning. Honestly, he should petition cots for the cops at the station. _Heh, cots for the cops._ Sleep deprivation is always amusing. What is also amusing is squeezing his little grumbling muffin gut and telling it, “It’s okay, buddy, I’ll put some burgers in ya.”

He gives it a little jiggle.

“Christ, McCree,” his co-worker says, passing by.

“Sorry.” He takes his time getting changed, lastly picking up his plaid shirt when something falls out of the pocket: a tiny black driver he does not recognise. Confused, he looks around for a possible owner, though he did not really expect one to show. Still, curiosity gets the best of him and he takes it back to his apartment (picking up a breakfast burger on the way as promised), an efficient little unit located on the nice side of town. It’s more than what his childhood could hope for.

He sits on the messy couch, burger cradled in one hand and his tablet in the other, going through the news widget as the black drive’s encrypted files unlock. Two fucking hours to unscramble.

McCree quickly scoffs down his breakfast. Too tired for this, the mystery will have to solved when he wakes from his nap. He sleeps to music to help his restlessness for silence. The nap lasts well into the afternoon, McCree wipes the drool off his beard. Nice.

Despite the long loading time, there is only a single accessible file, and it is addressed to him. His mind snaps out of sleep and jumps to all sorts of possible reasons. Hesitantly tapping on it, the file opens a black screen with white lettering. As he scrolls through, his gaze catches onto the word ‘Blackwatch’ and his name repeated several times in a collection of reports. Under the numerous lines, a vague invitation and co-ordinates. Unnerved, he takes screenshots for good measure.    

 

**2.3 - Past**  

The little black driver lingers on his mind. McCree hates to admit he is losing sleep over it.

He checks the co-ordinates on the global radar, and the location pinpoints a mine somewhere in the stretch of the Nevada desert; the old location for one of Deadlock’s divisions. McCree never does enjoy life long enough for his past to creep back in annoyingly cryptic ways.

He sits quietly at his office desk, staring at the computer screen displaying his own police file. Name, age, ethnicity, and a god-awful photo, below is an excessive list of all his crimes in methodical detail. Next to each crime, a status: _Acquitted_.

McCree remembers the anarchy of Overwatch’s downfall, he had stood before the judge and listened with disbelief the dismissal of all his crimes.

“For all his service to Overwatch and the people of this nation,” the judge had said. A fucking miracle. McCree never expected to ever have a clean slate.

After that, it was an empty period in his life for a long while, living as a wandering mercenary. Work was sparse, he struggled with purpose and eventually returned to the capital with his tail between his legs.

By some grace, he had bumped into Fareeha on one of his lousier days. They talked, reminisced, and then she encouraged him to join her in law enforcement. At first, he had laughed, partly because it was so expected of her to become a cop. But, that Amari has always had a way for inspiring determination in people. She transferred him the application on the spot.

It was not that difficult having to adapt to different rules. Nothing he couldn’t handle, anyway, not after Blackwatch. But he was so used to roaming, the first few months kept him restless, dissatisfied. At one point, he confessed that he could not see himself continuing. The look Fareeha gave him reminded him he had something to prove. He eventually planted his roots and learned to settle, learned to have an ordinary life.

McCree quickly taps out of his profile when a co-worker drifts past his booth. It was supposed to be a new start. Overwatch is supposed to be done, and no one ever mentions Blackwatch any more. Resentfully, a part of him does wish that part of his life is acknowledged, his best and worse years.

Often times he stares at his bedroom ceiling hoping the man he once called mentor would come back and give him the closure he craves. The driver sits heavily in his pocket.    

 

**2.4 - Diner**  

Another night shift! He is going to strangle the person writing the rosters.

McCree rolls into a favourite diner for some coffee (triple shot) to help start his night, chatting up the head waitress behind the counter in hopes she will give him a slice of pie for his charms. Hey, it works sometimes.

He drums the counter restlessly with his prosthetic hand as she goes to fix his order. The diner is busy, he notes most of the tables are taken by students from the local college. Cute kids. Little reminders of who he has to protect.

The movement of the door catches the corner of his gaze, he turns and blinks. Looking incredibly out of place is a man dressed in a three-piece black suit, all sharp lines and sharper eyes. McCree studies him; power in broad shoulders, prideful up-tilt of his groomed chin, fairly long hair in a princely bun with silver strands fanning over his ears. Eye candy. The man stands at the doorway giving the interior a disdainful look. This guy is probably lost. Officer McCree is always happy to help.

“Hey-”

The man sweeps a thick lock of hair from his eyes, pinpointing the corner booth and glides right past McCree. A bit taken aback, McCree watches the man wipe the seat with napkins before sitting down, arms crossed over his barrelled chest.

_A total prince_ , he muses, trying to decide if the unapproachable man is worth picking up. Just as he starts forward, another man enters. He, too, is wearing a fine tailored suit, accompanied with a metallic headband (weird accessory). McCree recognises the cute, smiley profile immediately.

“It is the officer!” Genji says first, voice just as cheerful as their first encounter. Out of habit, McCree tips his hat. “Apologies for the other night. We have heeded your road rules and paid the fine, promise.”

“What a coincidence meetin’ you again,” McCree says, then he gestures at the tailored suit, “You’re dressed mighty nice for a place like this.” 

“Our car broke down around the corner, but as it is close to dinner time, we were curious about the food here,” Genji helpfully explains, “Oh no, do not worry, Officer, it is already being looked at.”

“Genji.” The handsome man in the corner booth speaks. Genji slips into another language, playfully snapping back at him. McCree watches the exchange; _that must be the brother_.

Genji gives a short bow, returning to English, “Apologies, my brother is quite impatient. Please continue your good work, Officer.”

McCree grins, going back to his own business. The waitress places his order of coffee in front of him ( _aw, no free pie this time_ ). He takes the few remaining sugar packs from the dispenser and tips them in one by one. Not usually a man who minds his own business, he listens and watches the Japanese brothers in his peripherals.

Genji is reading out some items on the menu in a heavy accent. To each suggestion, the brother shakes his head.

“I promise the steak burger is good,” McCree interrupts, “Or the apple cobbler if you’re lookin’ for somethin’ sweet.”

The response in both brothers is polar opposite; Genji hums in appreciative consideration while the brother glares at him.

“I have heard about chilli cheese fries, is that good too?”

“Heck yeah.”

Genji is quick to call a waitress to the table, ordering for two. His brother sits stiffly like in he is trying to keep in his own bubble. McCree finds himself wanting to know what makes this guy tick.

The radio on his chest crackles with a call to a crime several blocks away, he murmurs a confirmation in response. He bids his own leave, waving off a “thank you!” from Genji, then gestures with his hat, a smirk directly at the brother.

Could be a trick of the neon light, but the brother looks faintly flustered. McCree eats up this tiny victory and leaves the diner with his sweetened coffee. He expects to catch sight of the bright green sports car when he drives around the corner, but there is only a sleek limousine parked on the curb with its hood propped up. The men in suits stop to watch him warily.

Weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They've finally interacted!
> 
> Everyone is so nice ;o; I hope to improve and deliver as this fic continues!
> 
> find me on tumblr for art [(http://catgoboom.tumblr.com)](http://catgoboom.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Violence against women. Hanzo has no idea what to do with his attraction. Please always assume that Hanzo and Genji always speak Japanese when conversing with each other.

**3.1 - Diner cont.**  

Hanzo sits in the back of a limousine, quietly watching the street lights drift past his window. Genji sits across from him, tinkering at the customised flick blade attached to the underside of his wrist. His foot taps rhythmically to the music in his ears.

The driver chitchats with one of the bodyguards about the recent baseball game that left their favoured team in shambles. Hanzo raises the divider to mute him.

The limousine his American host provides him is more than acceptable. The security it affords is on par with the president’s own car, they said. Hanzo showed his appreciation for the hospitality and the dogs lapped it up.

What he does not appreciate is the stuttering stop it makes halfway back to his hotel. Hanzo grunts irritably and Genji looks up. “Stay here, brother,” Genji says, all business. He slips out of the car to scout the situation; namely for an assassination attempt (there have been so many before). Though his little brother is the most skilled he knows, Hanzo wishes he did not behave so expendable.

A moment later, Genji rounds to his side, raps on the window and announces an overheated engine. Annoyance colours Hanzo’s face. Genji orders the men to tend to the issue, then slides back in, putting himself next to Hanzo this time. Their men work on restarting the limousine. Hanzo ignores his brother’s audible smile when his own stomach gurgles in the silence.

“There is a particular American diner nearby,” Genji says carefully. He sounds like a child trying to persuade their parent for something nice. “It has good reviews. Perhaps we can-”

“No.” Hanzo prefers to stay right here and starve until he can reach the hotel. Genji nudges him in his growling stomach.

“We are both hungry, and it is worth the experience while we are here.”

“Do you expect a man like me to be in a place like that?” Hanzo asks. He knows what his reputation can afford. It has made him prideful. To be seen in a cheap family restaurant is ridiculous.

“It is good to be ordinary sometimes,” Genji says, “Please, brother.”

They fall into a familiar pattern of “please” and “no” until Hanzo caves to his brother’s selfish wants again. Genji is as obnoxiously delighted as the night of their joyride, he tells Hanzo to go to the diner first while he assesses the extent of the engine’s damage again.

Hanzo stations his two guards outside, best he does not draw attention in a humble establishment. He is wary when he steps in. The diner looks as he expected, like a cookie-cut photo from a scene in an old Hollywood film. Though the lack of privacy is disconcerting, he appraises the aesthetic, then looks over to the counter and stops. It is him.

 _Scruffy_.

“Hey-” the cop starts. Hanzo swifty passes him, a beeline straight to the corner booth. He pretends to brush his hair back while blocking the sight of the cop with his hand. The moment he reaches the corner, he immediately chastises himself for not walking back out of the door. Now he is trapped in.

A lone potato chip lays on the cushioned seat. He grabs a few napkins, brushes it off and wipes away the oily residue. He can still feel eyes on him when he sits down, mind already on alert. Is he recognised? If arrest is attempted, Hanzo is not above snapping the man’s neck in front of everyone.

Looking everywhere but at the cop, his gaze settles on a framed photo to his side. In the reflection of the photo, he can see the cop step closer to him. _Shit_.

On cue, his brother appears.

“It is the officer!” Genji exclaims. Hanzo is mortified when they acknowledge each other. His paranoia grows as the two converse, until impatience breaks him first.

“Genji.”

“What?” Genji slips into Japanese again. Hanzo looks at him sternly, keeping his eyes on his brother and _not_ the cop.

“What do you think you are doing?” Hanzo asks.

“Making friends!” Genji says.

“Do not.” Hanzo ignores the bewildered expression on the cop’s face. Genji only seems to want to goad him into a public argument. The final look he gives stops it from happening. Genji bows to the cop.

“Apologies, my brother is quite impatient. Please continue your good work, Officer.”

Hanzo resists kicking him under the table when he sits down. In the photo’s reflection, he sees the cop has turned away now. Good.

Genji starts reading aloud the menu items that catch his interest. None of them sound appetising. Hanzo wrinkles his nose at the last suggestion of “maple syrup bacon and waffles”.

“I promise the steak burger is good,” the cop interrupts, his attention back on them again, “Or the apple cobbler if you’re lookin’ for somethin’ sweet.”

Hanzo immediately feels defensive, scowling at him. Will this man ever mind his own business?

“I have heard about chilli cheese fries, is that good too?”

Hanzo snaps his to glare to Genji, his little brother is _far_ too eager. With the cop’s approval, Genji immediately orders.

He stares at the photo on the wall again. It is a relief when he hears the radio call the cop away. Hanzo glowers as Genji bids him a friendly farewell. And just like their first encounter, the cop returns the gesture; hips swaying just so as he tips his hat. Hanzo’s eyes cannot help but follow the curl of his smirk.

The back of Hanzo’s neck prickles with heat as the man leaves the diner.

“I saw that,” Genji says when the cop is out of sight. He has a cheshire grin.

“You saw nothing.”

“You know you’ve got a bit of red,” Genji gestures to his whole face, “Here.”

Hanzo bristles.    

 

 **3.2 - Just Desserts**  

“I don’t know what you expected,” Hanzo says, “It was dripping in oil. That is nothing delicious.”

Genji whines, cradling his belly. It is no surprise that he suffers with a stomach ache. They have kept a moderately strict diet for most of their life, too much grease is punishing.

Hanzo pats Genji’s head in mock sympathy.

“Chilli cheese fries,” Genji croaks, “So worth it.”    

 

 **3.3 - Contract**  

Hanzo learns to play dumb when meeting with foreign associates. All is needed is a man to play his interpreter, and a simple “Shimada-san cannot speak your language” has people fooled in an instant. Men reveal so much in his presence when they do not know he comprehends completely.

He enjoys it when his American host apologises for the limousine’s breakdown, babbling on about a manufacturing detail that is of no interest to him. Genji translates between them.

When Hanzo speaks, he is sure to stress his words with disdain so the host understands nothing but his displeasure. An amusing contrast when Genji translates him politely.

“A weak dog,” Hanzo observes in his first language, “No backbone.”

“Shimada-san hopes that it will not happen again,” Genji provides in English, a true improviser. The host profusely promises it will not. Hanzo wonders if Genji enjoys this more than he does.

Of course he does.

He dismisses the host who gratefully slips out of the door, then addresses the board of men in the room. There is credit to the formidability of the company before him, he can read the power behind the American Mafia in the faces of their leaders. A secured alliance with them will gain the advantage back home and that is what Hanzo hopes to achieve.

Propositions are laid on the table, he rejects the first one outright. The negotiations start.

It is a long process for all parties to accept even one part of the terms. Hanzo did not expect it to be easy, but it is starting to frustrate him. Evidently, the others feel the same.

“Stop wasting our fucking time,” a boorish man snarls, “The Yakuza ain’t shit if you can’t even deliver.”

Genji casts a glance to Hanzo and unnecessarily translates. Hanzo keeps his expression neutral as he trains his gaze on the man, then speaks, “Tell this swine here that his offer is worthless to me. I want no less than sixty-percent for the export.”

Hanzo hates dealing with drugs; synthetic, legal, illicit, any of them. Too messy. The boorish man seems to rile up when Genji translates, so he adds more fuel to the fire: “And ten-thousand American dollars for each hit to be carried out.”

There is well-restrained outrage at his demand, and he is not unfamiliar with such a reaction. The price on human life is abhorrently cheap these days, ten-thousand is an incredible amount at first glance. But these Americans requested him here for a reason: in the business of assassination, the Shimada-gumi are the elite.

Flawless, untraceable execution. Even Japanese authority has nothing against them but speculation. All attempts to prosecute have failed before it barely reaches the master’s ears. The American Mafia could have easily used their own men at the high risk of igniting a civil war. Foreign and efficient, the Shimada-gumi is obviously the most favourable solution. A few less government officials in the American parliament is of little consequence to him.

For that price, he can understand their doubt. The Shimada-gumi’s reputation, while respected, has little influence in America. He waits for the response.

“Five-thousand for the first hit and we’ll see if you’re worth the money. Only then we will accept your terms.”

Fair. Negotiation begins again.    

 

 **3.4 - Drinks**  

Hanzo takes a day to brood over the recent conference. Genji accepts the hit contract on his behalf. So tonight, he is without his brother.

Genji encourages Hanzo to enjoy himself while they are apart. He makes the effort to search up high-class bars in the area of their hotel, noting down some to be to Hanzo’s tastes. Even though he declines, Hanzo ends up taking the suggestion only after Genji leaves.

The bar is an easy walk away. Hanzo brings with him his bow stored in a steel-trimmed archery case. Genji would normally carry this for him on his back as his first-lieutenant, Hanzo allows few others to handle Storm Bow. He assigns his guards to vantage points between the hotel and the bar. They will come when needed.

Dim, quiet, and secure, Hanzo appreciates the bar when he enters it, comfortably finding a seat furthest from the entrance. Three skilled bartenders work behind the counter.

He orders the recommended bourbon, figuring he might as well indulge a little. The first sip caresses his throat while he follows up on reports from the Shimada Estate on his tablet. They do well.

Drink and atmosphere soothing, Hanzo does start to enjoy himself. He acknowledges the bartender’s attentiveness for fetching him another glass; bourbon again. He also likes how the workers keep to their own duties, no annoyingly redundant questions about the weather or work life. Overall, a good find, quite peaceful.

That is until a drunken man decides to take offense to the female bartender who refuses to serve him another drink. The punch the man throws against her dainty jaw is unexpected. Hanzo watches the man clamber over the bar as the staff rush in to protect her. The bar stops to watch the violent scuffle in alarm. A patron is already on the phone to emergency response.

Hanzo calmly drinks as the attacker is heaved off the woman by her angry co-workers, one of them launching a punch to the drunk’s stomach to stop him from struggling. It works. They hold him down while they wait for the police.

The victim is tended to by numerous sympathisers. She gratefully accepts a shot of hard liquor for her nerves. She looks a mess. A siren sounds once with the arrival of red and blue lights, and in walks that man.  

 _Scruffy._  

Hanzo scowls. Is there such a shortage of police in America?

Though this time he is accompanied with another officer; a tall, dark woman with a noble profile, an elegant tattoo under her charcoaled eye. His archery case sits by his shin, in reach.  

They arrest the man, he resists, they throw him into the back of their car. While the policewoman talks to the victim, the hat-wearing cop collects witness' accounts. Many of the people seem too eager to give their story given that someone was attacked.

Hanzo painfully pretends to not notice the cop at all when he is approached. Not enough bourbon for this.

“Evenin’,” the cop drawls, hooking his thumbs into his belt. Hanzo’s eyes are quick to notice that. “The name’s Officer McCree, over there’s Officer Amari. Just like to ask some questions detailin’ about the conflict that’s taken place tonight.”

 _Y_ _ou have more than enough,_ Hanzo thinks. He focuses back on the tablet, thankful that it is in Japanese. Closing the report (about a successful assassination by beheading), he sips his drink.

“I don’t think you heard me the first time,” the cop- McCree- says patiently, now leaning on the countertop into Hanzo’s line of sight, “Just wanted to ask some questions regarding the assault. Or don’t you know English?”  

Hanzo knows he cannot avoid this. No Genji to distract the cop or chance of feigning ignorance. No playing dumb this time.

“I think,” Hanzo begins slowly, his own accent thick in his ears, “That you are asking the wrong person.”

The knowing smile McCree gives him makes his neck prickle again. He forces the heat away by swallowing more iced bourbon. The drink burns him from the inside too.

“Y’know I can put you in custody for withholdin’ information,” McCree says, a thinly veiled threat, “What’s your name by th’ way?”

Hanzo’s presses his mouth into a thin line. _Just give me a reason to shoot_.

McCree chuckles, shaking his shaggy head, “All righ’, I don’t usually give people second chances. I’ll ask again; what’s your name, sugar?”

Hanzo stands immediately, feeling harassed and hot. He takes a small satisfaction from the way the officer stumbles back, but he must leave urgently.

“Just I.D. will do,” McCree tries to amend, surprised, authority gone from his tone. Hanzo takes a moment to rein in his jumbled thoughts, musters his coolest gaze, schooling his posture to stand dignified. He collects his archery case and steps around the cop, barely brushing his side (something smells vaguely zesty in their proximity).

“Shimada.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for staying with this fic so far! Didn't really think it'll even get to this point, haha.
> 
> find me on tumblr for art [(http://catgoboom.tumblr.com)](http://catgoboom.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Generalised violence that you'd expect in a Yakuza story. That's not how you flirt, Hanzo.

**4.1 - Drinks cont.**  

“I don’t get why y’don’t let me drive,” McCree mopes. He slouches further in the passenger seat. Tonight, he has a partner along for his evening shift, and they’ve called to an assault at some fancy-ass bar uptown. Fareeha barely spares him a glance as they cruise past traffic.

“Jesse, I always forget you’re a full grown man.” She smiles at his offended stare. “Besides, I drive better than you.”

McCree grunts in agreement.

They already attract curious looks of passersby when they pull up to the curb of the bar. McCree makes an audible note about having a drink or two at this real nice place. Fareeha earnestly agrees they should set some time aside to drink together.

McCree enters before her, taking in the scene of the crime. The room is divided in two with a vacant looking group on one side and a man pinned down by several on the other side. Not so hard to deduce the man on the floor is the offender.

“This th’ guy?” McCree asks. They confirm that he is. “Good work, gentlemen, we’ll take it from here.”

He and Fareeha step in to drag the drunk to his unsteady feet who already starts resisting when the first cuff slips on. Why do they always do that?

Slamming the man against the counter, McCree pins him while Fareeha deals with cuffing the other wrist. He snorts at the drunk’s angry rambling while they frog-march him into the back of their patrol car. His slurred yells can still be heard after slamming the door in his face.

Fareeha takes the lead once they round up the witnesses, conducting her first interview with the victim who is nursing her blotchy cheek with a makeshift icepack. McCree notes down the other bartenders’ recounting of the attack into his standard issue tablet, some patrons chime in with extra information. They definitely have enough reasons to prosecute if the victim decides to go ahead with it. From the conversion Fareeha is having with the upset woman, it will likely be the case. Poor girl.

McCree checks around the bar, looking over the broken glass on the floor behind the counter. Nothing that can be used for evidence. He scans across the bar until his eyes fall on the lone figure sitting under the dim light.

Well, what a coinkidink. McCree is already approaching the stern man before he realises.

“Evenin’,” he says, all confidence. He uses this voice when he plays ‘nice cop’. “The name’s Officer McCree, over there’s Officer Amari. Just like to ask some questions detailin’ about the conflict that’s taken place tonight.”

The man ignores him, McCree takes in his appearance. The man is wearing a different suit tonight; deep blue, silver lined pinstripe. It fits nicely along his shoulders and the swell of his muscular chest. Pretty dapper.

McCree allows some moments for a response, but the man simply browses his articles and drinks. McCree has dealt with arrogance before, and this guy is just another asshole on the job.

“I don’t think you heard me the first time,” he sets his arm on the bar, leaning in close enough to invade his peripherals. He spots a little twitch in a groomed brow. “Just wanted to ask some questions regarding the assault. Or don’t you know English?”  

He knows it’s a cheap jab, but ain’t no point letting this guy play stupid with him. McCree watches the little gears work in that pretty head of his.

“I think,” the man speaks slowly, deliberately, a growling lilt, “That you are asking the wrong person.”

The voice is a little charming, his steely expression too. He looks like a man ready to fold up on himself to get away, and normally that means a person has something to hide. McCree’s lips curl, wanting to pry.

The man quickly downs the rest of his drink. Oh, he is definitely hiding something.

“Y’know I can put you in custody for withholdin’ information.” His first warning. “What’s your name by th’ way?”

The man purses his lips, now he’s thinking about his options. No introduction yet. So stubborn, not quite so charming now. McCree chuckles humorlessly and shakes his head. One more try.

“All righ’, I don’t usually give people second chances. I’ll ask again; what’s your name, sugar?”

Okay, maybe he overstepped with the petname. The man jumps to his feet so quickly McCree has to pull back. Just to avoid a conflict, he goes with a friendly suggestion, “Just I.D. will do.”

The man remains still for a moment, eyes determinedly fixed on a point in front of him. McCree suddenly feels like he’s trying to handle an unpredictable animal. As he slowly takes a step back, the man faces him with an icy stare. There’s barely a noise when the man moves closer, gliding around him like a breeze.

“Shimada,” he says, low, dangerous, McCree can feel it in the base of his spine.   

That’s supposed to be the surname, right? He vaguely remembers Genji’s full name on the licence.

“Hey now,” McCree says, pivoting on his heel to stop him. Shimada is already weaving his way out of the bar. He quickly signals to Fareeha that he’ll be back shortly; he’s just got to find out that this guy wants to keep from him (partly cop instinct, partly for his own curious attraction).

McCree follows him out onto the sidewalk. The drunk in the patrol car has fallen asleep.

“Hey, I ain’t done with you!” he calls, picking up his stride, spurs jangling. Shimada keeps walking with regal confidence, which just irks him a little. He matches the pace easily, “Y’know if you don’t stop for th’ police-”

Shimada halts, regards him coolly, gaze pinning McCree despite being shorter.

“Or what? You will arrest me, Officer?”

“Yeah,” McCree affirms, his own response sounding dumb to his own ears, “That’s exactly what’ll happen.”

The silence hangs for a short moment, but then Shimada turns and continues into an empty back street. Sigh.

“Okay, I gotta detain you,” McCree says, one hand grabbing onto Shimada’s arm, his other already reaching for a pair of cuffs. He barely registers the moment Shimada suddenly counters, snatching up the cuffs, spins him, and shoves him face first against the alley wall. McCree grunts at the force, hat knocked off.

Now he’s gotta deal with martial arts shit too? Christ. McCree huffs, reaching back for his taser (though he’s not fond of them), but Shimada is quick to notice and twists it out of his grip.

“Do not,” Shimada says, pinning him in place. He tosses the cuffs to the side, kicks it and the taser out of reach. McCree tests the strength of the grip, figures he’s wormed out of stronger holds before, then kicks off the wall to send them both backwards. Shimada releases him, McCree makes a grab and receives a swift blow to the stomach.

 _Goddamn, that hurts_. McCree wheezes, coughs and staggers upright. Okie-dokie then. Looks like he wants a brawl, and McCree will happily give as much as he gets. But before he can throw his best punch, a black suited guard steps in his way. Then another, and another, until a gang surrounds him like a human barrier. He freezes at the blades pointed to his throat and the handguns to his head.

Ambushed by a fucking mob.

Shimada is occupied with straightening the rumples in his suit, speaking to his band of men in rapid Japanese. Immediately, McCree realises he’s dealing with a person not be messed with. He’s met these figures a thousand times before, all power and untouchable and toxic. No difference if he has authority or not, no point calling for backup.

McCree knows he has to be smart about this and trust the unsettling feeling his gut. He holds his hands up in surrender and Shimada seems to be satisfied with that. The men move to Shimada’s softly spoken commands, the cold barrel of a gun nuzzles his temple.

“Move,” the gunman says in a thick accent. McCree moves with his hands raised. They walk him to an empty parking lot and force him to his knees. Fuck, they’re gonna execute him out in the open, aren’t they?

“Why do you follow me?” Shimada asks.

“Dunno,” McCree says loudly, letting his voice carry off on purpose, “Thought you were cute at first, but then you were actin’ like a real suspicious asshole. Didn’t like it.”

Shimada didn’t seem to like that answer, the edge of impatience in his tone, “Do you know who I am?”

“No, sugar, not a clue,” McCree says, smiling, “Genji could let me know.”

Mentioning the brother seems to strike a nerve with Shimada since he takes a gun from a goon and points it right between his eyes. McCree’s smile drops a fraction, and changes his tactic to appeal to this high-strung man.

“Look, if you’d just cooperated in th’ bar, we wouldn’t be here,” he reasons. His knees hurt on the asphalt. “Now you’ve just added assault on a police officer on top of resistin’ arrest. Don’t make it worse.”

The radio on his chest crackles, Fareeha speaks through the line, “Jesse, where are you?” He cringes at her timing.

McCree and Shimada stare at each other for a very long time.

“Answer it,” Shimada says, his gun hand unwavering. McCree slowly moves to activate the radio and responds. They keep a locked gaze the entire time McCree tells Fareeha that he’s just delayed by a toilet break. The excuse partially works.

“All righ’, my partner’s waitin’ for me,” McCree says when the radio conversation ends, “If I don’t get back in five minutes, she’ll come lookin’ and we’d all like to come out of this alive. So let me go and we’ll forget this happened.”

He’s negotiating like a highwayman instead of dying like an honorable cop. Heh. When Shimada doesn’t look convinced, he tries again, “I don’t know who you are, but I know you’re the kind of man who’s gonna fuck me up if I squeal to my boss. I’m not. Jus’ let me go.”

Another considerable stretch of silence, he lets Shimada walk away. Peacekeeper rests heavily on his hip. McCree wishes he didn’t have to play by cop rules.

He limps back to his hat to live another night.    

 

 **4.2 - Familiar Faces**  

Fareeha drops her line of questioning when McCree rebuffs her. The encounter with Shimada has put him on edge. He doesn’t know if it’s his sense of lawful justice itching to put Shimada in prison, or his deeper desire to put him in the ground.

Every criminal he’s encountered since leaving Overwatch to now has been the petty sort, or mildly evil. This Shimada is something else; the kind of monster that Blackwatch has ingrained into him to eliminate.

McCree feels a headache coming on. With the little black drive and Shimada on his mind, his head feels uncomfortably heavy and he has a gut feeling one of them will bite him in the arse eventually. And he is always fucking right about these things.

He sits in the briefing room, playing a silly game on his tablet to pass the wait (about luring cats into his garden with food and toys). It’s early in the morning when he was called in, something about an important case and that he was mentioned by name. Several other officers sit in with him, no one knows what this meeting is for.

Soon, Fareeha enters and they all greet their captain. She looks strangely taut, paler, McCree feels uneasy at the sight of her. He looks around the room, none of the others seem to notice their captain’s subtle discomfort.

Fareeha turns the projector on and begins the brief in her usual manner, but he keeps noticing her gaze constantly flickering to the door. At this moment, he knows why. The next person who enters makes his blood run cold.

Tall, proud, not looking a day older than the day he disappeared: Gabriel motherfucking Reyes. In the flesh.

McCree balls his hands tightly on the desk, a surge of turbulent emotions swelling in his chest and rising up his throat. He grits his jaws together so tightly, he can hear the grind of teeth against teeth. Ears seem to dull the noise around him, everything sounds echoey and distant. He tries to focus on what Fareeha is saying:

“We will be working with a special operatives force on this assignment,” she says. McCree catches her eye and they both know they’re thinking of Blackwatch. He feels ill. Why this and why now?

As Fareeha continues to speak, McCree stares at Reyes intensely, obsessed. He doesn’t care what might be showing on his face, but the way Reyes was barely acknowledging him got under his skin.    

 

 **4.3 - Unanswered**  

McCree flees after the briefing, unable to trust himself in a room with his former mentor for any longer. He was sweating and shaking in the locker rooms when Fareeha tracks him down and brings him into her office.

They sit in uncomfortable silence, door shut and locked. After giving some time for McCree to calm down, Fareeha begins to explain how Reyes first appeared to her. First it was the orders from their superiors to enlist the best officers for the affiliated operation, and McCree’s name was specifically mentioned. That's when Reyes showed up, and he had been cordial and formal with her, like strangers. She had already looked into the files; Reyes is genuinely the commander of the specialised task force they are working with, some military branch of the F.B.I.. Everything checks out on paper, according to her.

But they both know better.

“He barely has memory of anything before,” Fareeha says. She cradles the mug of tea in her hands, they tremble slightly. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

McCree can only stay silent as Fareeha echoes his thoughts.    

 

 **4.4 - Breach**  

The entire operation is a sugar-coated ghost of Blackwatch, and Reyes’ return only cements that in McCree’s mind.

It’s an eerie feeling to be working with him again even at a distance. Barely feels like a reunion, more like Reyes returned from vacation and it’s back to business as usual. Only difference is that this unit is kept on a tight leash by the American government, apparently for transparency. Nothing to do with Overwatch or Blackwatch, they say. It stands on the reputation of the F.B.I. which surely every citizen knows and trusts. Ch’yeah right.

The not-Blackwatch is currently focused on disassembling organised crime in the States. Investigations has stationed them outside the entrance on a luxury hotel where intel has gathered to be a hotspot for crime bosses in the last two months. Inside word has let them know a major gathering will be happening this evening, and the plan is to kill half a dozen birds with one stone. Figuratively. Shooting to kill was permitted, but discouraged.

McCree feels a little in his element with the bulletproof vest fitting snugly around his middle and Peacekeeper comfortable in his hand (he fought to keep her instead of using the standard handgun).

His team move up the levels in co-ordinated pairs towards the supposed meeting room. A team on every floor, his one remains on the tenth, just one below the action. His team waits, once having to tell an ordinary hotel guest to go into their room and stay there. McCree suddenly realises the risk of collateral damage is high and scowls.

Suddenly the elevator pings behind them and the doors open. Standing shoulder to shoulder are the Shimada brothers who are both alarmed to see him. Once again, their reactions are completely opposite. McCree doesn’t have the chance to check out their new suits this time.

“The officer! Wh- Hey!” Genji starts, then yelps when Shimada shoves him behind the safety of the elevator wall and slams the button to close the doors. McCree rushes towards it to get his metal fingers in between before it shuts, but he just misses by a second.

“Fuck!” McCree watches the elevator light drop to the ground floor, then immediately takes to the emergency stairs, leaving his team behind. He flags his earpiece, “McCree reportin’ in. I’m in pursuit of two men, Japanese origin, both between five-foot-seven to five-foot-ten. They’re in the middle elevator headin’ to the foyer.”

Fareeha sounds exasperated when she answers, “McCree! Get back to your team and let the ground unit handle-  get down!”

A high-pitched whistling can be heard distantly, followed by a metallic _thunk_. His earpiece crackles slightly.

Picking up his pace, he leaps down the flights of stairs, missing several steps at a time. He bursts through the door in time to see the brothers slipping through a back staff entrance, but stops when he catches Shimada firing with an actual bow and arrow at the cops near the entrance. Who the hell is this crazy guy?

Not missing another beat, he chases after them through the hallways of screaming workers. His earpiece tells him that the teams above are now engaging with the ambushed Mafia. The entire hotel is having a catastrophic meltdown, but he is determined to make this arrest to make up for that humiliating night.

Like a hound dog, he keeps on their tails until he corners him in the kitchens, huffing and puffing, but grinning all the same. The brothers also breathe deeply, Shimada looking furious and Genji oddly calm.

“Howdy, gents, hands where I can see them,” he aims Peacekeeper, especially at Shimada. McCree inappropriately relishes in the satisfaction seeing Shimada slowly sink to his knees in surrender. 

Genji does not, however, and unsheathes a sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk guys it's 2am on a work night i hope it's ok
> 
> Yes, that was Neko Atsume. Also, we'll be getting to a lot more McCree & Hanzo interactions starting next chapter, so thank you for sticking with this for four whole chapters!
> 
> find me on tumblr for art [(http://catgoboom.tumblr.com)](http://catgoboom.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: mention of suicide (like in the first paragraph), more violence and killing. Artwork in End Notes.

**5.1 - Breach cont.**  

Hanzo does not tell Genji about his encounter with the scruffy policeman when his brother returns from his mission. He does let him know that he went drinking, and that the bar was nice. Genji mentions the assassination was successful and the body should be discovered under the mysterious circumstances of suicide. Now they wait for the national news to report it.

A message summons them to a luxury hotel for the next meet. Apparently they will have new parties joining them now their ‘grand plan’ is beginning to take hold (the American Mafia is certainly ambitious). Hanzo dismisses his men at the front entrance. A keycard is already prepared for them the moment they reach the front desk, he appreciates the efficiency.

“Do you remember which floor?” Genji asks, hand hovering over the panel of buttons once they step into the elevator.

Hanzo makes a face. “I thought you knew.”

Genji presses ‘10’ saying he is "pretty sure this is correct". The elevator shifts. Genji rocks on the balls of his feet to the sound of casual music, Hanzo checks his watch. When the elevator pings with the opening of the doors, they are greeted with the most unwelcome sight: Scruffy. _Again_.

Officer McCree is just as surprised to see them, looking like a dumbfounded bear in the middle of the wide hallway. Genji greets him like a friend, but Hanzo quickly notices the groups around him, the special-ops uniform and the gun in his hand.

Mind kicking into high gear, he knocks Genji to the side with the weight of his own body behind the elevator’s panelled wall, crowding them into the corner in case the cops decide to shoot. Genji does not protest. He slams the button for the ground floor.   

McCree’s heavy, hurried footsteps draws alarmingly close, but thankfully the cop does not reach the elevator in time. Hanzo hears him curse outside of the doors as they descend, prying himself off Genji who looks a little confused, but alert.

“We are compromised, brother,” Hanzo says, shrugging off his outer jacket onto the floor, left in a dress shirt and vest. Even tailored, the jacket is too tight around his shoulders for maneuverability. He beckons Genji to give him his archery case which is promptly obeyed. It only takes him seconds to assemble Storm Bow and a moment later to equip himself. Genji lets his fingers play along the handle of his _odachi_ , ready to draw.

They breathe deeply in silence with practiced meditation, hiding with their backs pressed to the polished metal walls either side of the door. Hanzo tries to predict the situation ahead, prepared to fight. Emerging from an elevator is not an ideal start, not when they can easily be trapped in. The doors open.

Hanzo peeks around the corner and scowls. At the edge of the now empty foyer, a line of officers with guns trained on the very elevator they are standing in. One of them is yelling across, advising they surrender with their hands in the air. Hanzo barely pays attention to their useless speech, it does not matter to him how they try to negotiate.

“Shall I?” Genji says. Hanzo nods, watching him slowly step out with his hands above his head. He listens to Genji putting on a friendly face, lightly humouring the officer’s demands. With their attention on his brother, Hanzo draws his bow, pivots around the corner and launches the scatter arrows.

The distraction works; the police scramble to avoid getting pierced, several arrows find a target. Genji throws down a smoke pellet, immediately consumed by the thick fog, Hanzo darts out as gunshots ring. They run towards and leap over the front desk, using it as cover to get to the door at the back and kick through the mechanical lock with some effort. Crashing it open, Genji pulls him through as he lets another arrow loose.

The hotel workers sheltering inside start to panic at their sudden arrival, they shove some aside, sprinting along the corridors, then through double doors to skid into the hotel’s kitchen. There is only a short moment to recalculate their position when the sound of jingling footsteps follows right behind them. They turn around and see, again, that infuriating scruff of a man.

Hanzo glowers at him, huffing through his teeth. Genji breathes evenly, composed. McCree is grinning, pleased.  

“Howdy, gents, hands where I can see them,” McCree says, his gun already aimed. Hanzo eyes the weapon warily, thinking it as gaudy as the man’s metal arm. Doubting he can draw and shoot faster than a gun already pointing at him, Hanzo puts Storm Bow aside, showing his hands as he carefully lowers to the floor. McCree follows his movements with his revolver, smirk still present.

He already expected Genji to disobey the order when his brother draws his blade, and places his trust in him completely. Hanzo concentrates on his own breathing while postured on his knees, push and pull. McCree gives the _odachi_ an incredulous look.

“You can’t really think that ninja prop is gonna stop a bullet, do ya?”

Genji perfectly schools his stance, ready.

McCree’s eyebrows shoot up then he cocks the gun. “Well, okay then.”

He circles them, moving away from the double doors, past the several raised steel kitchen benches and puts himself in front of the emergency exit; their one way out. When Genji does not hesitate, he gives him another warning, “Y’know, that could be seen as a threat, and I’d hafta shoot.”

“Or you could not shoot and let us pass,” Genji says with a fox-like smile. Hanzo almost smiles as well, the quip also earns a chuckle from McCree.

“Yeah, sorry, not gonna happen,” McCree says.

“A shame,” Genji says, “I have no intention of surrendering.”

“Ah, heck, just gimme a moment then,” McCree says, he presses his metal fingers to his earpiece and proceeds to call for backup. Escaping through the double doors is no longer an option either.

“Genji,” Hanzo says impatiently. His brother promptly hurls a fan of _shuriken_ across the room. McCree yells, dodge rolls out of the way and fires twice. Genji swipes his blade in a wide arc, the bullets ricochet, a light in the ceiling bursts sending a shower of sparks.

“Holy fuck!”

Hanzo springs to his feet, swiping up Storm Bow, he dashes forwards. Genji boosts him into the air over the benches, he twists, aims and shoots for the officer’s throat. McCree hits him precisely in his right shoulder. The arrow strays inches off course, embedding in the cop’s heavy vest, no damage, but it does enough to knock McCree to the wall, winded. Hanzo drops down gasping in pain, blood blooming under his shirt.

“Up, _Anija_!” Genji shouts, hauling him. They barrel through the emergency exit onto the back parking lot. Police are already here as well. Hanzo grits his teeth, pressing close to Genji as he supports his damaged shoulder. He counts ten officers, ten guns, a helicopter overhead.  

Without the ability to shoot a straight arrow, he has no means of efficiently backing Genji in a fight without getting filled with lead.

The twin dragons’ power resonates close to the surface of his inked skin. This advantage will do. Hanzo grits against the sting in his shoulder, works through the pain as he nocks the arrow. An officer orders him to drop the weapon when McCree suddenly tackles them down from behind with the force of a charging bull, catching them both around the middle and sending them to the ground. Hanzo lands in an awkward angle to not pressure his wound.

The police descend upon them like wolves.

“Y’all pretty fuckin’ slick sons of bitches,” McCree pants, rolling on top while his colleagues apprehend Genji. He wrestles Hanzo’s arms together and slaps the cuffs on too tightly. Hanzo winces at the weight of the knee against his back, and softly sneers at the irritatingly smug way McCree recites the stupid American Miranda rights. Genji swears beside him.    

 

 **5.2 - Arrested/Taken**  

It is a surreal feeling to be sitting in the back of a police van, to be actually arrested in all his years, and in a foreign country no less. Hands are securely cuffed behind his back, unable to do or say much with two officers guarding their every move.

Not that it favours Hanzo to move right now as they only padded his bleeding shoulder with the bullet still inside; he gets no courtesy of an ambulance on the way to the hospital, and the bumps on the road aggravate his discomfort.

Genji hums a tune across from him. Hanzo sees the miniscule shift in his arms and knows that his brother is already trying to pick his cuffs loose. Clever. Better to wait, Hanzo closes his eyes and concentrates on his breathing for another time.   The van drives on for a while, Hanzo listens to the sounds outside their small chamber; traffic, the radio’s tinny song clashing with Genji’s melody, the helicopter still drumming above.

Genji has stopped moving, likely already freed himself. Hanzo waits for his cue.  

However, the ambience changes when they pull to a jarring stop, Hanzo has to stamp a foot to the floor to stop himself from sliding sideways. The engine still rumbles, there is a muffled reprimanding yell outside followed by more raised voices, he strains to hear what they are saying.

The two guarding officers sitting with them breaks their silence, talking in low, gruff voices to each other. They speak in a language Hanzo cannot identify, and he soon realises that these two may not be genuine American police from the manner of their tones. Genji pauses his humming, he seems to catch onto this observation too.

He jolts at the sudden sound of a booming crack of a gunshot, but the guarding officers next to them do not even flinch and merely stand to face the doors, still conversing. Genji communicates to Hanzo with a look: _Get ready._

A policewoman yanks open the doors from the outside, alerting them to evacuate the detainees over the noise of returned gunfire. She is immediately shot down by one of the foreign-speaking guards. Hanzo scowls as they round on him and his brother, the shooter grabs Genji by his upper arm.

Genji bolts into action, flinging the loose cuffs into the other’s face and chases the distraction with pinpoint jabs into his throat. The shooter staggers back, wheezing painfully and clutching at his neck. Hanzo quickly drops to the floor to trip up the comrade before he can react, Genji grabs the man’s head and uses the momentum of his fall to smash a knee against his skull. He drops like a ragdoll, blood oozing out of a broken nose. One down.

The shooter still sounds like he is suffocating, hands shaking when he aims his gun. Genji easily ducks under it in their confined space, disarming and striking at the same time. With the weapon now in his possession, Genji pulls the trigger on the man and the body tumbles out of the back end of the van. Hanzo winces as he carefully pushes back onto his feet with his brother’s help, slipping once in the puddle of blood.

“Quickly,” he urges, presenting his cuffs. A well placed bullet breaks it in two, Hanzo clutches his bandaged wound when it throbs. He searches the unconscious body for a weapon, foregoing an assault rifle for a pistol. Uninterrupted gunfire continues on outside, the helicopter sounds louder than before.

“I do not think this is supposed to be a rescue,” Genji says. Hanzo agrees, loading his gun.

“Are you able to identify the other group?”

“Not sure, but it looks like the fuzz are getting pushed back,” Genji says, peering out from the temporary safety of the van, “Ah, we must go, someone is coming.”

Hanzo lets him take the lead as they slip out and run across the warring street, keeping behind the cover of abandoned vehicles. Into the nearest alleyway, out the other side, they scale up the wall of a building to escape on rooftops.

Nothing prepares them for the immediate confrontation of masked soldiers at the top, all black armour, red lights glowing in the dark. Genji reacts before him, throwing himself in front and shoves Hanzo off the ledge as the soldiers unload. Their bodies are splintered with darts, Genji takes the majority and keels over instantly.

“Genji!” Hanzo gasps, throwing his good arm out to catch the railings of a fire escape before he plummets to the concrete. He spots a line of finely tipped needles littered up his tattooed bicep, suddenly feeling drowsy and nauseous. Fingers slacken and he falls hard.

Hanzo writhes with pain, breathing difficult, staring helplessly at the sky. Several soldiers follow him down spider-like on thin cables. He blinks rapidly, vision warping them into awful humanoid shadows.

 _Move, move, move!_ Stumbling twice, Hanzo drags himself up, using the alley wall for purchase.

“GENJI!” he calls again, panic rising when he hears no answer. Legs give out under him, he slumps against the wall with a groan. The shadows land and come for him. Impossible to focus with the pain sharply radiating up from his shoulder and the drug clouding his senses, but he still manages to raise the pistol.

“ _Ryuu ga w-_ ”

“Hey, ugly!”

Hanzo stops short, words dying in his mouth, dragons rumble with displeasure underneath his skin at the faltered summoning. Five successful firecracker shots, the shadows collapse where they stand, bullets in their brains.

“Damn, don’t ya look a mess,” McCree saunters into view, twirling his revolver as he approaches. Hanzo still has enough energy to feel bothered by his cockiness, still able to see the stupid smirk in his swimming vision. A metal hand grabs him under the arm and pulls him up to a weak stand.

“Genji,” he rasps.

“Whoa-” McCree says when Hanzo wobbles dangerously. Hanzo feels the warmth of the cop’s chest hitting his cheek when he goes down again.    

 

 **5.3 - Interrogation**    

Hanzo is not unfamiliar with waking up on a hospital cot, but being cuffed to the railing is a new feature. The bullet already dug out and his skin stitched, he already feels the local anaesthetic losing potency.

“Mornin’, Sleepin’ Beauty,” McCree chimes from the door, Hanzo looks outside; it’s still dark. The cop then turns his head to yell down the hallway, “Hey, doc, he’s awake!”

Hanzo subconsciously grips for his non-existent gun when the doctor enters, flanked by another two officers. She methodically checks his vitals, the repair and his responsiveness. All boxes are checked. He denies the offer of painkillers. How can he think about his own pain when Genji needs him to be sober and alert?

“Hanzo Shimada,” McCree drawls once the doctor leaves, dragging out the vowels of his name in all the wrong places, “Finally got to do a little homework on ya. Pretty damnin’ shit on record, some of them international.”

Hanzo gives him a withering look, but it does not seem to deter the man. The cop peels himself off the frame and walks up to the bedside. “Man, Shimada, you’re on another level of crime lord to have an army.”

This is the beginning of an interrogation.

“Those are not my men,” Hanzo growls, he will admit this much. He did not expect McCree to believe him, which he does not. Hanzo tenses when the other man draws a chair up, fully intending to sit for however long it takes.

“Yeah? Explain why my coworkers are dead and you’re livin’ and breathin’ in a little, ass-less paper dress right in front of me?”

Hanzo’s skin prickles, suddenly self-conscious now attention is brought onto his thinly covered body. He holds his cold glare to match McCree’s mild expression. “That is not my problem to explain.”

“Mmyeah, it kinda is,” McCree says, pulling a palm-sized tablet from one of his front pockets. He opens up an app with cartoon cats; if this is a tactic to annoy Hanzo, it works. “We literally had a military come at us and you were th’ reason. Pretty sure it’s your problem.”

Hanzo observes him carefully; the cop is not not close enough for him to be able to steal his weapon yet. He will wait for the first mistake or the first distraction. His prosthetic legs are still attached, he figures the doctor did not know how to remove them, thankfully. He at least has a chance of escaping on his own.

“Where is Genji?” Hanzo asks, diverting the subject. McCree looks at him for a long moment, but allows him the question.

“Don’t have him. Sure your brother dear didn’t just run off?”

“No,” Hanzo says calmly, though fingers anxiously curl into the white sheets, “He was taken.”

“How’s that?” McCree says, still unbelieving.

“That is what I intend to find out once you release me.”

McCree chuckles, “Nah.”

The lofty dismissal pricks at Hanzo’s nerves, he jerks his cuffed hand, it clangs loudly. McCree warns him not to do that, so he rattles it another time. The cop stands to cease his tantrum, Hanzo grabs the front of his shirt with a snarl, yanking him hard enough that he sprawls over his lap.

He just brushes the handle of the revolver before McCree manages to catch his wrist in a vice grip. Hanzo clicks his tongue as McCree clambers off him warily, still not letting go. The stare at each other for a long time.

The tension is interrupted by a loud tap at the window. They halt and look outside. Nothing.

Hanzo attempts to get the taser while the cop is distracted. McCree actually lets out a thrilled laugh of surprise, tightening his hold to keep him from grabbing it, “Motherfucker!” He shimmies his hips out of reach when Hanzo swipes again.  

 _Tap. Tap tap._  

McCree frowns now, throwing down Hanzo’s arm and cautiously moves to the window, unholstering his gun as another pebble smacks the glass. He peers out. A figure crashes through, legs colliding McCree in the chest hard enough to send him to the floor. His head lolls to the side, knocked out. Hanzo watches the shadowed figure rise to full height, it approaches the bed swiftly.

“Master,” his shadowed agent murmurs, giving a short bow. Hanzo regards him with a nod and holds up his cuffed wrist, the blade slices through the metal. He swings his legs off the bed, shrugging on the offered coat gratefully. His agent escorts him to the window, readying the zipline.  

A bullet flies past Hanzo’s head.

McCree coughs feebly from where he lay, head slightly raised in line with the revolver held out in front of him. The door bangs open, police reinforcements flock in.

“Ass righ’ there, freezehole,” McCree says with a lopsided grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOKS LIKE THE PROBABILITY OF ARRESTING A DRAGON... IS HIGH YEAAAAAAAAAAH *sunglasses emoji*
> 
> Sorry for the wait! Work has been hell.
> 
> @ppl who said Genji is cute: sorry, mates, looks like he's gonna be out of action for a while :')
> 
> hey guys i drew some scenes! (Genji with chin fuzz tho)  
> 
> 
> find me on tumblr for art [(http://catgoboom.tumblr.com)](http://catgoboom.tumblr.com)


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